


Blogathon Drabble Collection

by popfly



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Blogathon 2005, Blogathon 2007, Drabble, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-06
Updated: 2005-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles I wrote for various Blogathons. I wrote these for people, but I'm not including LJ names since most of them are defunct/deleted now anyway. These were all posted at the community <a href="http://lizathon.livejournal.com">Lizathon</a> on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blogathon Drabble Collection

_There is a place within all of us, it is sacred, so free of judgement. And this is yours to share with who you wish, this is your sanctuary._

What happened inside Brian and what people saw were two different things. Brian had perfected the art of hiding his feelings behind masks of scorn or indifference, knew that people heard sarcasm and thought heartless. Cold.

He wasn't heartless by a long shot. He cared about the people in his circle, he just did it in his own way.

He also wasn't cold by a long shot. Aloof maybe, but not cold.

He let people believe what they wanted.

Until Justin.

Justin saw. Justin knew. And Brian loved that.

He didn't need the masks anymore because Justin saw through them.

 

_She can’t tell me that all of the love songs have been written, ’cause she’s never been in love with you before._

Justin had tried loving someone else. It had been nice, romantic. All of the flowery cliches that love was supposed to be. Breakfast in bed, bubble baths, matching rings. It had been ... well, nice.

But nice was boring. Nice was picnicking on the floor until Justin just wanted to eat a meal at a fucking table, god dammit.

Nice didn't make you come so hard you saw stars. Nice didn't constantly catch you by surprise or make you so mad you wanted to scream.

Justin knew that nice wasn't enough. Nothing else could ever be enough after loving Brian Kinney.

 

_Hey, I got a message and tonight I'm gonna send it._

Brian was looking for him.

Justin scoffed to himself as he shouldered his way through the crowd. He wondered when "looking for someone" had started meaning "fucking Rage in the backroom". Fuck that shit. Brian wasn't looking for him, Brian was proving once again that Justin meant nothing, or close to it, that Brian could fuck who he wanted when he wanted.

Well Brian, Justin thought, stopping in his tracks at the sight of Ethan standing near the door, message received. Loud and fucking clear. And now, now you can hear mine.

Justin kissed Ethan hard, and hoped Brian saw.

 

_I want to go all over the world and start living free._

Justin dreamt of standing in the wings of a sold-out concert hall, hearing the crowds cheering for his lover, laughing as Ethan picked flowers up off of polished stages. They'd make love afterwards on 2000 thread count sheets in a posh hotel room, before stealing all of the mini bottles of toiletries.

Then Ethan got signed, and Justin was the "cousin", and he had to sneak to the concert hall and watch from a seat in the back. But it was still exhilarating.

Until Ethan left with one of the admirers and Justin had to watch that show instead.

 

_From my mouth, now more and more every day, words that have nothing to say, well I'll find something someday._

Towards the end -though Justin didn't know at the time that it was the end - Justin found the words "I love you" to mean less and less. The first times he heard them they were precious, he wanted to pluck the words from the air and feel their edges, take them into his mouth and taste them, roll the around on his tongue. He wanted to pile all the "I love you"s up, burrow down in them and stay there.

After awhile they lost their lustre, became dull and boring, and Justin wanted something more, but he didn't know what.

 

_Your flirt finds me out, teases the crack in me, smittens me with hope._

Brian tried not to watch Justin, to study the slow thrust of his hips. He tried to tear his eyes away, but then Justin looked over and Brian couldn't help but stare.

He tipped his head back against the wall as the guy in front of him pulled Brian's cock from his jeans, but he kept his eyes on Justin's, and Justin didn't look away. He stared straight into Brian, thrusting a little harder, his mouth open slightly, his nostrils flaring.

Brian came harder than he had in months, and knew it had everything to do with Justin being there. 

 

_With your feet in the air and your head on the ground, take this trick and spin it, yeah._

The sex for the first few weeks was rough and fast and really *really* fucking hot.

Justin had bruises and scrapes and rug burn from being fucked every way possible everywhere possible.

Then one night they were fucking face-to-face crossways on the bed. Brian had Justin's legs straight up in the air and he was driving into him with such force that Justin's head ended up hanging off the side of the mattress, his hair swishing on the platform.

He didn't even notice when he bumped it, and Brian discovered the lump the next day in the shower.

 

_You make me feel like a candy apple, all red and horny_

Justin loved the looks that Brian gave him when he was dancing with someone else. Justin would grind against the other guy and drop his head back, knowing that the lights would be catching the glitter on his exposed neck.

Brian would be watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, his beer long forgotten, not even trying anymore to pretend he wasn't watching.

The look was predatory; hot and sharp.

Justin would dance a little longer and then abandon the guy and push through the crowd to Brian.

Brian would kiss him like he was going to devour him. Justin wouldn't mind one bit.

 

_Drink up baby down, are you in or are you out? Leave your things behind, "cause it's all going off without you._

The thing was that Brian wasn't actually upset because people were getting married. He wasn't upset because people were settling down. He wasn't really angry at Mikey for being a "defector".

He felt left behind.

He had never felt left out of anything in his life, and the feeling didn't settle well.

All he had to do was admit something that everyone already knew. Give something of himself to someone who had done nothing but that for years.

Brian stood outside Justin's studio and took a deep breath. He had to do it. And he had to do it now.

 

_If you’ve got a picture of your face / leave it for me on your way out the door_

Justin had been the one to break it off this time. He did it for logical reasons; better than a fiddler who made fake promises.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt. It hurt like hell. It made his arms heavy as he emptied out the drawer he had so recently filled and his heart heavier.

It made his eyes fill with tears when he looked at the picture of them in the silver frame on the table.

He felt a little guilty when he slipped the picture out of its frame and into his jacket pocket. But he needed it.

 

_You say it best when you say nothing at all_

Brian - when he wasn't writing copy for an ad campaign, that is - was not good with words.

But when he was touching Justin, one hand in his hair, tangling in the longer strands, fingers warm against Justin's scalp, the other gripping Justin's hip hard enough to leave white fingerprints for long minutes, Justin didn't care. When Brian was inside him, thrusting slow and steady or hard and fast, pleasure humming and vibrating up Justin's spine to spread to all of his nerve endings, Justin didn't need words.

Justin didn't need words because Brian was way more eloquent with his body. 

 

_Yeah you were just mister flirtatious/All night just workin' that ass/Well you know it's uncool to bring it to school/If you don't want to share with the class_

Brian had tried not watch.

He had directed his eyes everywhere *but* the stage. He studied his trick's hideous cut-off shirt. He watched the feet of the men on the dance floor, even though they didn't move, really. They were all busy watching what Brian was decidedly *not* watching.

He didn't want to see the fantastic ass in white briefs, the cocky grin beneath the rim of the cowboy hat.

Of course he saw anyway. Saw the lithe body gyrating and bending. Saw the determination in the set of the jaw.

Brian didn't want to, but he wanted Justin.

 

_All I can do is just pour some tea for two/And speak my point of view/But it's not sane_

Justin figures he has two pretty strong arguing tools on his side: Beam and his body. Brian’s always been a sucker for both.

So when he comes in the door to Justin’s cluttered flat, snorting at the pile of shoes in the entryway, Justin has both ready. They clink glasses, Brian eyeing Justin’s bare chest over the rim of his, and drink, then barely make it to the bed before coming together.

After, when Brian’s breath has slowed to normal Justin speaks. “I’m coming home.”

Brian cracks an eye open and stares. Justin doesn’t blink, and finally Brian says, “Okay.” 

 

_I can still see us sittin on the bed in some motel/Listenin' to the stories we could tell_

The summer of their seventh year was particularly grueling, and Brian couldn’t make it to the city until October. He still refused to stay in Justin’s loft, claiming he didn’t like the color of the walls or the socks on the floor. So they sprawled on the pillow-top mattress of a king size bed in a suite whose minibar had already been depleted, the heat cranked to tropical temperatures, pressing fingertips against sweat-damp skin.

Brian didn’t talk about his trips to New York. He kept the stories to himself, told by his bruised sides, the teeth marks in his shoulders.

 

_And I don't know how/No don't know to hold you/Without shaking/No I'm not aware of how/I could possibly love you/Without aching_

They shouted at each other through the phone until finally Brian swore stridently and hung up. Justin called him back that night like nothing had happened, and Brian stroked himself while Justin talked dirty in his ear.

Justin came to visit and Brian wanted to drag him to Babylon. Justin wanted to stay home. They fought in the living room before Brian stormed out. He stumbled home at three and Justin was waiting, pale against the charcoal sheets.

Brian asked once, after a nasty round of name-calling, why Justin acted like it never happened. Justin laughed and unbuckled Brian’s belt.

 

_You've gotta make your own kind of music/Sing your own special song/Make your own kind of music/Even if nobody else sings along_

His closet was full of colors like tangerine, teal, violet. Even fuschia and chartreuse made an appearance. There were ponchos, there was vinyl, there was mesh.

They were things that other people wouldn’t wear, would maybe even laugh at. But Emmett loved each piece, and he looked good in every color.

He’d always skipped along to the beat of his own drummer, even when he was spit on and beat up. Which gave him the confidence to strut in his pink leather pants.

He was colorful when everyone else was black and white. And he was damn proud of it.


End file.
